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That moment returns when he should expect it the most.
Usually it is when the Liberation Front has mustered as a whole, for one reason or another; be it a meeting to discuss vague plans for the future, repair broken carriages or temporary housing, or the rare occasion they all gathered for a meal together. This occasion was a shared dinner after a successful mission. Not wishing to mingle with the others beforehand, Frei had once again volunteered to go out and procure their rations. Lewandowski and a new member had offered to go along, to which he adamantly refused, using the pretense that it would be suspicious if three men were sent out to a small village to do a simple task. Even if he wanted to get to know them, for one reason or another, it was usually a waste. The Liberation Front was not usually a haven for the long lived: though for every heretic that perished, another seemingly crawled out from under the floorboards to take his or her place.
Maybe it is the quality and surplus of pearl barley and vegetables he procured that went into their pottage that put everyone in high spirits this evening, having lived on only bread for countless days. Or that they finally had a source of drinking water and some decent beer to wash it all down. He could not begin to fathom why, only that he was not completely immune to getting caught up in it.
There are a few jokes and recollections to some amusing events shouted out across the tables that get them going. Something about it makes Frei join in at the laughter the group shares, even if it is only with a hint of a smile that curls upwards at the end of his mouth. Then he catches himself, squeezes the handle of his mug as his stomach churns at the idea that he was beginning to enjoy himself. The memory pulls at his heart and reminds him that he is surrounded by the laughter of people who would surely have raised or will raise a knife to him, as was done in the past. The glint of that knife follows him, menacingly, in every shadow, every person's watchful eye, and too many nightmares.
Frei remembers how his youth was once filled with laughter like this, with people he once considered friends and neighbors. People his family would help or rely on during times of strife.
He sees the good days so clearly still: his mother's patient lessons about the significance of the cross and what hardships their savior endured, the prayers his father taught him to ease his nerves, the way they each held his hands, keeping Frei steady as they played in the woods outside their home.
Then his once peaceful and uneventful village life was uprooted in a collective madness and consumed by fire which burned away the last symbol of hope they all had. How could they reject such a chance to persevere over the challenges their village faced? How could they mock their savior?
The one question still burned in every furrow of his mind: why would the others not let them leave when they no longer felt safe or welcomed?
His parents pacifism was lost that night to heretics like the people he now sat with in the present. So close to freedom only for their own family and neighbors to turn on them. The voice of his father, a man of patience and reason, still echoes in his ears, wishing only for his son's safety as he slowly drowned in his own blood, staring up at the kin he grew up with side-by-side and trusted.
In shock, Frei's legs could not move a muscle as he helplessly watched that knife steadily nearing him, ready to plunge into his neck, only for his mother to plunge her own knife into the gut of their attacker. His mother, who would never hurt a soul, was forced to give up her peaceful ways when they were cornered. That knife was not even meant for defense, she brought it along so they may whittle down branches for campfires. She had to dirty her hands on that animal Frei once admired, once called uncle, who turned out to be nothing but another violent heretic, killing family over his petty squabbles with the church.
There is a deep-seated regret over not saving his mother, for not turning back to help her fight off that beast even as her demands for him to run still reverberated weakly among the trees. Could he have, through the starvation he felt, or would he have made his parent's sacrifices all for naught? He barely survived the night or the following days, having been discovered by a stranger outside the woods. What a small child he was: confused, pathetic, and weak. He can only look upon that child with pity and contempt. Even with the years that have passed, he still knows that child's weaknesses have not left him.
That is why he is here, to rid the world of heretics who are hopelessly controlled by some madness thinking they are doing the world a favor. There is a level of sanity on the surface, he cannot deny it. He sees it on the faces that surround him now.
There was Schmidt, a man who hides his madness under a strange loquaciousness, who could never respect the cross, as he deems it necessary to reject man made things. Hypocritical, yet impassioned. Too boisterous to question Frei's quietness. He will use that to his advantage since he had yet to fully earn their leader's trust.
Jolenta, their leader, he can respect her, though that word was too strong. She, too, looks helplessly for remnants of the dead, people of some strange worth she has not fully opened up about. He agreed with her ideas of freedom, but her mindset was misguided, as was her path.
Then there was Lewandowski, a jester among barbarians. Why was he here? To be a thorn in his side? Why did this man choose not to leave this place, to live in peace elsewhere where his cheer was wanted? Was it a secret tactic, to act the fool to get him to lower his defenses to reveal his plans? Frei would throw barbs at him to keep him from getting too close, which he did during the numerous times Lewandowski tried to get Frei to open up.
As if sensing his thoughts turned to him, his jester placed an arm around his shoulder and shook him as if there was some familiarity between them. "Hey, Bolko, tell another joke! I think our ice queen is about to thaw. Look at that smile!"
As others joined in the annoying racket, Frei, made sure to quickly and effectively turn it back on him, say that it was impossible not to join in their amusement when the embodiment of a joke sat beside him. On queue, Lewandowski took the insult personally, and loudly, causing the others to turn their laughter onto him. As was the way of the heretic: no true respect or care for one another.
As Lewandowski's hold left him and the others slipped deeper into their madness, Frei slipped into the silence of his mind. This instance would be one of many reminders of what he must do. Little did they know he could end their tirade so easily, slip poison into the rations he procured. But he was above their tactics and needed to strike not at the symptom, but at the very corrupted soul of this matter. He needed the location to their ultimate plan and stop it before it ruined the lives of innocents. As heretics once destroyed the cross and family he revered, he would repay the favor by destroying the sinister tool they planned to use to spew their chaos, whatever or whomever it was.
Then he would proudly raise the cross once more.